On the move again ...

The past couple of weeks have been marked by days of unforced living, not really shopping for stuff other than immediate needs (or un-needed but suddenly desired trousers as happened yesterday), not setting many deadlines other than table reservations or the odd meeting with friends. But all good things are bought at a cost, and today we were paying (as in "You'll pey furrit!") as we ended our second stay in Newhaven and packed up all the stuff we'd brought with us before restoring the house to its pristine per-occupation state. I have to say my own house is never spotless when we leave - more abandoned than anything else - but we've done our best so that we might be allowed to do it again. Apart from normal luggage, we had to cart duvets and towels and a couple of pillows (I like my own pillow!) down stairs and out across the square to the car, and then there was the box of culinary things and the cool-bag ...

It was early afternoon by the time we were ready to set off, and the roads were busy. There is one particular exit onto the road heading west, on the south side of the city ... but we made it, shopped a bit in the Greenock Tesco, and were home by 5pm. Himself made curry while I unpacked all my stuff and all the food. And while I was doing this I was thinking about the problems people have with childcare during the long holidays, and how they were for me and how they are now ...

This: I realise with increasing clarity what a privileged childhood I had, especially when it came to the summer holidays. Because my father was a teacher - and my mother, when she went back to work when I was about 10 - they had the same holidays as we did. And until I was 15 we spent the entire eight weeks that used to be the summer holiday (because there were no mid-term weeks off) in Arran, in the same cottage every year. My parents loved Arran, loved the hills, loved walking, and didn't like the city in the summer, so off we went. My sister and I ran wild in the woods behind the house and played ball games with other visiting children on the grass in front of the row of estate cottages which were all let out in summer. When it rained we played with waterproofs on, and wellies or sand shoes, and we got wet. We didn't care. And on some wet days I'd hide upstairs with a book - I devoured books. Sunny days were great, wet days had their own attractions, and I wanted the holiday to go on for ever. No pressure to "do holiday things" - we just lived a different life in which work played no part. It was bliss. 

So - I'm telling myself this now - I have to rediscover this ability for the following seven weeks till we actually have a holiday. Otherwise it's a complete waste of time - and time is running out faster with every year that passes. Only slight problem is I have to cook, and shop, and occasionally clean the house a bit ...

Photo taken at breakfast time, just because the sun was shining in and it felt like a holiday. The sun was well hidden by the time we got home. And it's late. Again.